Christmas at the Artemis Club
by hollygofightly
Summary: Christmastime has come to Atlantic City, forcing Gillian, Richard, and Tommy into new domestic territory. As they bicker their way through buying presents and decorating the tree, the spirit of the season starts to make even this ragtag group feel like a family. Written for the Speakeasy Holiday Stash on Tumblr.
1. Part One

Snow fluttered down from the thick cloud cover, blanketing the woods like frosting on a cake and soaking up all sound like a sponge, leaving not even a bird call in its wake. Richard trudged along, ice and dead leaves crunching beneath his feet. The forest that surrounded him now was a world away from the vibrant timberland he had chosen as his final resting place so long ago now. Had it really been over a year? Closer to two at this point. Today, he made sure to keep careful track of where he'd left the truck. He had no intention of staying in these woods today, not when there was so much to do.

At the sight of a squat, round conifer, his footsteps were overtaken as Tommy rushed forward. "Look Meemaw!" he cried, nose and cheeks blooming scarlet in the cold.

"It's lovely, dear." Gillian had lagged behind, her dainty shoes no match for the uneven earth, but she sauntered up to them now and pulled her fur stole tight around her shoulders. "But I think we should find a great big one for the ballroom. Don't you agree?"

"But I want this one," the boy whined.

Richard cupped his shoulder and leaned down to mutter in his ear, "Maybe we can. Come back for it." This proved enough to placate the child, who nodded and skipped on up ahead.

By now, Gillian had forged ahead as well, and the caretaker dutifully followed. Though they were surrounded by trees, none was good enough for the matriarch, who paid them little mind as she described once more their goal: "It should be large but not too large. A nice, even shape. And don't forget we'll need room for the star on top."

On and on they marched, further into the silent woods, but Gillian's ideal still hadn't materialized. Just as he was about to suggest they turn back, they spotted it: a statuesque Douglas fir, full at the base and tapering gracefully to a noble peak. It was a handsome tree, just begging to be displayed in a grand hall, branches dripping with glass and tinsel and glittering lights and surrounded by the lush opulence its presence commanded.

"It's perfect," Gillian cooed beside him, her eyes crinkled and sparkling with joy.


	2. Part Two

"What in god's name—" She flew into the main room, brows furrowed and body radiating frustration.

"I thought. You wanted—" His knees buckled beneath the weight of the mighty spruce, which lay awkwardly against his back, knocking his mask slightly askew.

She crossed her arms impatiently across her breast. "I'm telling you what I want. Take it to the parlour."

He glared as he hoisted the behemoth of a tree securely on his shoulder and moved awkwardly towards the hall.

"Over there," she said from somewhere behind him once he'd made it all the way across the ground floor. "It can hide that awful little table."

He merely grunted in vague agreement and dragged the tree towards the nearest corner.

"Oh no, not there." She paused, taking her sweet time surveying the room. "It is such a handsome tree…let's put it by the window."

He followed her graceful gesture, a trail of needles criss-crossing the room in his wake. He had just neared the curtains when—

"No, no, that will never do. We wouldn't want to bring any…unnecessary reminders to our guests, would we?"

He was glad for the mask, which hid his rolling eye from her view.

"Over there. That should be fine." She stepped aside to let him pass, her nose high and scrutinizing. He struggled ever so slightly, bringing the tree to its full height, and waited patiently for her approval. Again, she took her time.


	3. Part Three

The boys were crouched by the fire, an array of white paper lay before them, bearing the Commodore's insignia. Richard was bent over Tommy, whose little pink tongue was curled up around the corner of his mouth in determination. He held a folded square of paper and a pair of sewing sheers in his chubby hands, and he was very carefully snipping tiny shapes from the creamy paper. "Finished," he said after a final assessment of his work.

"Good, now. Unfold it." His large hands hovered around the boy's as he lifted each layer apart to reveal a rough but charming snowflake. "Very nice," Richard rasped, patting Tommy's shoulder in approval.

"Can we make more?"

"We can make. As many. As you like."

The child grabbed another sheet of stationery from the stack. "I wanna make enough to fill the whole house," he said, drawing out the _o_ to reach each corner of the expansive grounds. Richard chuckled and began folding a sheet of his own.

They sat for a while in the firelight, a jaunty melody wafting down from a phonograph on the girls' floor.

"How'd you learn to make snowflakes?"

"I used to make them. With my sister. When we were young."

"Did you get to go to the flea circus after presents?"

Richard shook his head. "I grew up. On a farm."

"There's no farms here."

"There are. In. Wisconsin." The words caught in his throat, and it clicked harshly to free them.

"Did you have a mommy?"

"I had. A mother. And a father."

"Was he a soldier, too?"

Richard focused hard on square of paper in his shaking hands, then looked up at the boy. His eyes were still absorbed in his craft. In a flash he saw Jimmy's stern concentration in the child's dark eyes, and felt a surge of affection for him, a reignited drive to do whatever it took to keep him safe. To keep him happy, just like this.


	4. Part Four

She was wandering the corridors of Blatt's department store, where she had intended to check the price tag on a darling painted rocking horse for Tommy but had somehow ended up among the men's shirts instead, when she saw them: a breathtaking display of glass baubles in an range of glittering hues. Her face lit up like a child's and she drifted towards them, entranced.

A gloved hand had reached up to the glass pyramid before she had even realized she'd raised her arm. She pulled an ornament towards her, cradling its delicate curved form in her hands like the treasure it was. It was just as she'd always dreamed.

A fresh-faced salesgirl with a crown of strawberry curls was just passing by. "Miss!" Gillian called to her. "How much for a dozen?"

"Oh," the girl said, startled. "I don't work in this department, but—"

Gillian smiled. "All right, you've sold me. Give me the lot."

He was wandering down the boardwalk with Tommy in tow, making themselves scarce during the afternoon rush. They had made quick work of picking out a gift for the only family Tommy had left—Richard had been prepared to field any insistence on finding gifts for Jimmy and Angela, but such insistence hadn't come. A part of him was relieved, but another ached for the depth of the boy's loss.

The sky glowed a pale orange, and the shouts and merriment that had surrounded them upon their arrival had long since begun to die down. "I'm bored," Tommy whined. "Can't we go home?"

"Not for. Another half hour." He dug in his coat pocket for a few coins. "Here," he said, dropping them into Tommy's mittened hands, "You can buy us. Some chestnuts." He patted the boy's back in the direction of a nearby cart.

As he took in his surroundings, he noticed a shop window that he could have sworn he'd never seen before. Some sort of rough-hewn toy shop, by the look of it: through the semi-darkness, he could see rows and rows of wooden dolls and tables scattered with trinkets. He moved closer.

Cupping his hands against the glass, he scanned the room until his eye landed on a scraggly little tree in the far corner of the shop. Its branches bowed beneath the weight of the tiny wooden figures that dripped in patternless intervals: sleds and reindeer and angels and little toy drums, all painted in crude, blotchy strokes, with love if not with skill.

"What are you looking at?" Tommy had returned, a paper cone of steaming chestnuts in his grip.

"Hm. Come with me." Richard led the way into the shop.


	5. Part Five

"You can set the boxes down right there." The delivery boy wheeled in a stack of wooden crates that brimmed with delicate bubbles of painted glass nestled in a nest of shredded tissue paper. As he unloaded each box, Gillian ran her fingertips along the gold leaf filigree that lined each precious trinket. She couldn't wait to get them on the tree.

"Will that be all, ma'am?" The young man looked up at her expectantly.

"Would it…trouble you much to hang them for me?" Her sweetest smile—the one _he_ always seemed to see right through—tugged at the faintly-lined corners of her mouth, but the young man shook his head.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. That's not really—"

"Please," she cooed, taking a step forward. "I would hate to muss myself."

"Oh, uh, of course," he stammered, and eyed the ornaments through a knitted brow. She was close enough to smell the cheap, useless aftershave that clung to his baby-smooth cheeks. "But—

"I'm sure it'd be quick work for a big, strong man like you."

His nervous laughter spilled unnaturally from him as her fingertips made contact with his worn suspenders. She could feel his heart pounding beneath them. "I'd really like to help, ma'am, but…see, I've got runs to make, and—"

The clatter of Tommy's footsteps rushing into the room drew both their attentions up to the boy and the caretaker that followed, clutching a wooden crate of his own.

Gillian's smile faltered. "Richard, you're back. And what, may I ask, are those?"

His throat clicked before he spoke. "They're…um…"

She stepped towards him and lifted what appeared to be a tiny wooden rocking horse from its string. "Where were you planning to hang these?"

The delivery boy crushed his cap in his hands. "Ma'am, I must be…bye." He hurried from the room before either of them had a chance to acknowledge him, which they hadn't even planned to.

Her eyes had locked on his, her fingers white-knuckled around the defenseless horse. "I hardly think these _toys_ are appropriate for the spirit of this house."

"You said. No one would. See it."

"It's my tree, and I don't want—"

"It's. Tommy's tree—"

"—to sacrifice the aesthetic of this establishment for—"

"—It shouldn't matter. To you—"

"I'm hungry." It was Tommy, stepping between them to wrest their attention.

Gillian's steely gaze lingered on her employee, spitting a litany of unspoken insults and condemnations at his damaged face. Finally, she looked away and took Tommy's hand. "Come, sweetheart. Meemaw will make you a snack. Richard has work to do."

She pushed past him, jostling the box in Richard's arms as she steered her grandson from the room.


	6. Part Six

Christmas Eve, an icy chill crept through the lonely manor halls. The girls had retreated God knows where for the holiday, leaving behind a makeshift family masking all too fresh wounds with feigned mirth and thinly-veiled insults. And yet…

Richard had prepared a small dinner, modest yet festive: a roast chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, candied yams, even a pumpkin pie. "Well, aren't you full of surprises," she'd remarked, more biting than complimentary. "Where did you ever learn to do all of this?"

"From his sister!" Tommy chimed in, saving Richard from the labor of responding. "She lives in Wisconstin."

"Wiscon_sin_, dear," she corrected, but here attention barely strayed from the man before her. "I wasn't aware you had family."

His throat clicked as he swallowed in response. She found the reflex both endearing and repulsive, though at the moment it erred towards the former.

After dinner, she decided to retreat to the parlour to bask in the glow of her beloved tree, only to find it not the pristine confection she'd envisioned but a storm of mismatched ornaments grouped in odd bunches on the lower branches. She needn't ask to know it was Tommy's doing, his tiny hands struggling with the prickly branches. Perhaps it was the spirit of the season, but she suddenly felt a rush of guilt at her recent spats with her son's partner; she made her way to the stack of boxes that held the surplus of decorations and let her hand hover over a fancy one before scooping up a rough-hewn angel instead, fingering its fat little wings tenderly. She raised it to the tree and let it droop from a high bough, then stepped back to admire her work with a bashful smile.

A hum from behind made her turn to find the boys watching her. She blushed. "I see we've had a little elf sneaking around," she said with a mischievous smile, bending down to her grandson. "Come. Why don't we give him a hand?"

She lifted the child from the ground and let him choose an ornament from the box, holding him high so he could hang it with pride. She glanced back at Richard and thought she caught a hint of a smile cross his lips as he strode towards them, plucking a glass ball gently from the crate and following suit.


End file.
